


Heaven And Hell Are Empty; This Is Limbo

by trickstartmonk



Series: Limbo Boy Patrick [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Gen, M/M, Members of Fall Out Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstartmonk/pseuds/trickstartmonk
Summary: “You have,” he stutters, “um.” Pete mimes little devil horns this time, watches Patrick turn red.





	Heaven And Hell Are Empty; This Is Limbo

When Pete thinks back on it later, he probably should have known something was off.

Patrick is being pissy, _again_ , he’s on some tangent about a weird country singer with an obnoxious twang to his voice that Pete can’t stand and Pete looks at Patrick, who’s brow is furrowed and deep, and just. Huh.

Patrick is looking at his feet, the ground, the wall, anything but Pete because that’s what Patrick does when he’s truly annoyed about something as trivial as an obscure musician from Georgia. He’s got a slight scowl on his face, the one Pete hesitates to think is _cute_ , and his eyes are cast downward, he’s leaning forward a bit too, his mouth set in a tight line in between almost-shouts. He’s not looking at Pete, but Pete’s looking at Patrick (he’s _always_ looking at Patrick) and, _what_?

Pete thinks, ’ _huh’._ He’s looking at Patrick’s temples, gleaming with a slight sweat because it’s hot in here, like eighty degrees, and also they’ve been kinda sorta yelling for a while. (Pete started it because he likes when Patrick gets mad and calls him stupid, dumb, calls him every insult in the book. He likes to get a rise out of him.) They’re in this humid house, almost yelling at each other, snapping back and forth (Patrick’s fighting with knowledge and experience on the topic, Pete’s fighting with dumb statements and provoking jabs, smiling when Patrick gasps at his most recent comeback.)

And that’s when he sees the, well. Pete doesn’t actually know _what_ to call them.

Sprouting from Patrick’s forehead, above and just a little inward his temples where the bone is supposed to be thick and the skin smooth, are these horns. They’re not like, big or anything, but they _definitely_ weren’t there just a second ago, what the fuck, how did that even happen, is Pete tripping?

He assumes his jaw must have dropped and his eyes have widened, given that he feels one unhinge and the other spring open, respectively. He watches Patrick realize Pete’s not participating anymore, hasn’t been for a few seconds, and Patrick looks confused. He opens and closes his mouth, kind of like a fish, and his eyes are searching and irritated when they meet Pete’s. He starts to say, “wha-” and Pete shakes his head frantically, gesturing at his own forehead and miming big horns. Patrick’s mouth snaps firmly shut, Pete can see too much of the whites of his eyes. Pete doesn’t usually see Patrick panicked, this is new.

“You have,” he stutters, “um.” Pete makes little devil horns this time, watches Patrick turn red.

Patrick swiftly turns on his heel and marches upstairs, presumably to leave, and Pete stares at the little coffee table cluttered with old lyrics and new melodies. (The songs are rough still, hardly even qualifying as _songs_ at this point in time, little scribbles and undefined dreams more than substantial _sounds,_ but hey.)

Pete stares at the line, can’t actually read it from his spot several feet away, but remembers the words anyway, scratched into his brain after one too many nights awake. He remembers every word like his own self indulgent gospel, can recognize the particular phrase from its format. It applied to everything, he was counter-quoting Shakespeare. 

 

_"heaven is empty, the angels are here.”_

_\--------------------_

 

Sure, maybe, _possibly_ there were times when Pete got a little suspicious.

Like, okay, that time in California, when they were touring? Totally suspicious, now that he thinks about it.

They had an interview earlier that morning but weren’t needed to perform for another night, were totally free to fuck around. They had the bus and wanted to hangout somewhere fun. Pete suggested a beach, he likes the sunny waves and beautiful people baking in the sun, and everyone agreed. California is cool like that, what with a whole coast to it’s left.

It was a totally awesome idea, Pete thinks, except for how it was in the middle of November, and thus, fucking _cold._

Joe grumpily calls his girlfriend and opts to stay in the bus, as does Andy who’s busy reading some weird novel following the lives of powerful women in the early 60’s, what a nerd, seriously, and Pete honestly expects Patrick to do the same. After all, it's pretty much winter and the beach looks more _soggy_ than sandy, grey instead of golden. He can’t imagine Patrick wanting to join him, and yet, Patrick shuffles out the bus’s doors clad in scuffed up Converse. He’s got a Bowie shirt on, Pete’s bandmates are _dorks_ , but when he announces so, Patrick smirks and tells Pete his faded Morrissey shirt is just as bad.

Pete pretends to be affronted. He looks down at his tee and starts naming off their best songs, the ones that make him Feel Alive, Patty-boy. At one point he tries to sing some of the more ambitious notes and giggles when Patrick covers his ears and winces. Patrick laughs with him (not _at_ him, never at him) and sets the pace. Pete falls into step beside him. The sky is a white, light gray. Not nearly as gloomy as everyone thought, though. Pretty.

Patrick pokes at a piece of seaweed with his shoe. It’s dark green, a _forest_ green, which Pete thinks is funny because its from a different forest than he’s used to. From the underwater forest, not the one Smokey the Bear protects. Pete grins and snatches it up off the ground with his fingers, ignores the pointed, “with your _BARE_ hands?!” and chases Patrick.

They run for not that long, a few minutes at most, but it's cold and wet in the air. The salty mist whips their faces, and Patrick’s cheek are a bright, lively pink. Pete tackles him into the heavy sand and tries to grab at the seaweed. He apparently dropped it somewhere along the way and now can’t actually rub it in Patrick’s face, but oh well. Patrick is under him, on his back and face flushed, pressed into the beach. Pete sits on top of him, on Patrick’s thighs and thinks about the sand under Patrick’s spine that’s molding to his shape. Pete knows it is because when he sinks a hand in beside Patrick’s ribs, he leaves a precise handprint. Pete’s still heaving, knows Patrick is too, can feel his chest move up and down.

Patrick could push him off if he wanted to. Pete’s braced somewhat precariously, and he wonders if Patrick’s going to buck him off. He looks down carefully and sees Patrick’s eyes closed and body relaxed. He’s grinning, Pete knows it’s not at him, more _with_ him, and Pete smiles down at him, stupid fringe in his face.

After a while, Pete rolls off, and lies on the beach like Patrick is. He thinks its sorta uncomfortable, the grainy sand hurting his skin a little. He turns his head to the side and tries not to watch Patrick’s soft features but ends up doing precisely that, counting his light freckles that always disappear in the fall and reappear come spring.

It’s wet under them. Pete stops caring after a few minutes and feels his nose a little runny from the cold. He shifts a little. If he moved an inch or so to the left, their pinkies would brush. (He doesn’t.) It looks darker out, he thinks, and he’s been shivering so long it's as easy as breathing. Patrick snuffles beside him.

It’s about two pm, maybe three, and Patrick looks at ease. He looks beautiful, looks like a fucking rockstar, looks like a saint. He’s glowing a tiny bit, but Pete blames it on the chill, even though sometimes it seems like Patrick just naturally emits this a soft light. It’s a crazy concept, Pete knows, and he never tells the guys that sometimes he thinks Patrick radiates sunshine, not so figuratively.

Objectively, Patrick is beautiful. (Subjectively, too.)

When Patrick finally opens his eyes, first at the sky above, Pete decides to mentally photograph this moment. In his head he makes a little _click_ sound and skirts his eyes over everything he can in the scene in front of him. This is important, because Pete specifically notes their setting and details the sky, which was crowded with clouds and shielding the sun. The sky is no longer a bright whitish grey it was when they arrived, now a much darker, near slate tone. The sun does not peak through or break into the beach. Pete remembers this, he’s _positive._ There is no sunshine in sight.

And so, when Patrick looks away from the sky at to his right, at Pete, his eyes should NOT be a searing white. Pete jolts back a little, shielding his eyes, and thinks about when he was in kindergarten. Mrs. Maze said, ‘ _don’t look directly at the sun,’_ but when Pete sat in his timeout, he defiantly looked.

He remembers the _white_ and _hot_ and _ouch_ vividly.

There’s no explanation for Patrick’s eyes imitating the literal fucking _sun_ , none at all.

He tries to explain to Patrick even as he keeps his eyes covered, still squinting, still seeing red lights flashing behind his eyelids. _Fuck_ , that hurt.

“Dude, your fucking-, your EYES! What, I. Fuck, that hurt, Pat?” He hears no response, only feet travelling the opposite way of him. He tries yelling out, but Patrick can be an asshole when he wants to be. Patrick doesn’t answer. Pete huffs out a laugh, because, seriously. What the fuck?

By the time the ache fades away in his sockets, Patrick’s gone, as to be expected. His footprints are still encased in the sand. Pete rubs lightly at his temples and brow. He follows Patrick’s steps, like usual, and makes it back to the bus. He hears Patrick in the lounge, talking quietly on the phone, and he doesn’t intrude.

(Contrary to what everyone thinks, Pete knows how to read the signals. He knows when he’s not wanted.)

He plugs in his ipod, shoves the earbuds in, and takes out his journal. He writes furiously, scribbling the page, scratching through at times.

In the morning, they’re already at the venue when everyone else wakes up. Joe yawns and begs for coffee, Andy glares at him from over his cup of herbal tea. Patrick stumbles in roughly and Pete doesn’t linger on his form, still sleepy and cheek indents from the pillow. No, he doesn’t do that, instead he drinks from an old water plastic water bottle.

Patrick turns to him though, mumbles, “How’d you sleep?” and looks disappointed when Pete says he didn’t. When he opens his mouth again, probably to berate Pete like usual, Pete’s fucking tired of it and still sorta pissed off, though he’s not completely sure why.

It feels like he’s out of the loop. It’s unfair. Him and Patrick talk about anything and everything, fuck Pete for not knowing there were certain invisible _boundaries._ Fuck Patrick for making them.

Pete cuts him off, placing a notebook Patrick hasn’t seen on the counter (it’s new), and monotones, “lyrics.”

He turns immediately, not waiting for his reaction and knows even from his bunk the lines Patrick saw first. The ones scribbled in thick black ink and emphasized.

He can imagine Patrick’s face reading them, the crease between his eyebrow, the reddish blond hair falling in front of his eyes, the lips that twitch and move as he says the words in his head but  tests them on his tongue.

Pete sleeps. He dreams about guardian angels and what heaven would be like, if this is heaven, if this is as good as it gets. His dreams are confusing and twisted. He can’t tell what is or isn’t a metaphor, where the figurative language ends and literal begins.

 

‘ _Halos on a head like a crown/ winged creatures deformed/ on my left, an angel lacking direction/ pearly gates and his pearly whites scream imperfection.’_

_\--------------------  
_

Pete sits down on the couch. He wonders if he imagined those little spiky things from Patrick’s head. Maybe he freaked Patrick out by trying to talk about something that wasn’t really there?

No, no, that can’t be right. Patrick loves to argue about stupid shit like that, he’d have been the first to say, _‘shut the fuck up, Pete’_ and tell him, _‘you’re delirious.”_

And that’s why it's weird. Patrick was confused, then worried, then angry and embarrassed. He didn’t dispute anything, didn’t smack Pete upside the head for being a creep, didn’t say that Pete was incorrect in his observations. He didn’t plead anything but guilty in the way he exited, that’s not something Patrick would’ve done unless Pete was right about something really, very, _extra_ important.

Pete frown at the lyrics again.

Its just, okay. It’s weird. Oh! And not in a way like, I-am-scared-of-my-best-now or anything (quite frankly, he’s _always_ a little scared of Patrick), more in a, I-guess-I-always-thought-of-Patrick-as-more-of-an-angel?

It’s weird.

_He thinks about Patrick’s sometimes glowy skin, the way his back sometimes looks, like. Sorta like, the skin shifts weird? Like his shoulder blades sometimes jut out too much, or the way the light moves differently sometimes at 2am when Patrick is passed out shirtless and exhausted in Pete’s bed (because his is the softest, it’s a known fact). When he’s on his stomach _just_ right and the moonlight streaming in through the window hits him _just_ so, Pete thinks it looks like the light moves to these like, invisible things on Patrick’s back first, and then tries to diffuse. (He wrote a song about that, one where Patrick bargained with the moon to keep his strange secret, and the moon accepted, but sometimes forgets about the pact and reveals too much on accident. The moon hopes no one notices, but Pete’s glad he always does.) _

So, yeah. Pete thinks someone normal would be freaking out, if he were Joe or Andy, he’s be a mess trying to interrogate Patrick and find answers. Except he’s Pete, and Pete’s not normal in the slightest. Pete’s been cataloguing some weird, tiny, microscopic things for the past few years, and this confuses him, sure, going in a different direction than he anticipated, but it doesn’t really freak him out.

He picks up a mostly empty piece of paper and scribbles for a while. His head reels, thinking about the band, mythology, contradictions, and Patrick’s juxtaposition. His grip is white on the pen, but the sentences are mostly coherent phrases.

_“Heaven and hell in one body, sugar sweet Limbo./ Desperate needs calling for even more desperate measures,/  Say hello, beautiful Purgatory.”_

_\--------------------  
_

There was a time in August, too.

The band had two weeks for a break, sandwiched right in between tours, and instead of going to his own house, at the Dallas airport, Patrick suggests he and Pete just stick around at Pete's to mess around, hang out, work on stuff.

“For like, music,” Patrick tries to explain. Pete nods eagerly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, “of course.”

Patrick’s smile is blinding, Pete’s mental camera goes _click._

In Chicago, they smile so big their cheeks hurt, fuck they love this place. As shitty as she can be, as awesome as she is.

After a few days in Pete's house and they've settled in, they try to work on music. It's hard because its only them two, and Patrick is like, Apollo's freaky twin, but Pete just plays bass and writes crappy poems that only come to life when Patrick breathes them. (Pete thinks if he were the jealous type, he'd hate Patrick for being so nonchalantly amazing at everything in this industry. As it is, he grins when Patrick's voice cracks and gets goosebumps when he hits a run perfectly.)

They fall into a pattern. Breakfast, music, lunch, break, then dinner and hangout time. They sleep at one am and wake up at nine, usually. Breakfast is usually sourdough toast or a powerbar. Music can mean anything from practice to listening to Pete's extensive cd collection on the ground, sprawled out, heads brushing. Lunch is whatever sounds good, break is alone time so they don't kill each other. Dinner is whatever Patrick decides and makes because he's good at it, even though Pete tries to help. Mostly he gets things thrown at him and yelled at because he's always in the way, but Patrick's eyes are always laughing. 

So yeah, its a pattern.

When they break of at the end of the night, Pete goes to his bedroom and Patrick goes to the spare. Both rooms are at the same side of the house, so usually they head there together, arms brushing, fingers catching, shoulders bumping. Sometimes they walk still laughing loudly, eyes crinkling and breathless, sometimes with eyes cast downward and grinning quietly. Patrick always turns first because his is closest. Pete gives him the usual hug, revels in the breath at his neck and eyelashes fluttering at his skin, the soft and firm way Patrick hugs when he's at ease.

When they part, Patrick looks beautiful and sweet, his hard edges gone hours ago. He pulls his lips lightly, his almost-smile cherubic.

Pete walks to his own room and falls heavily into his bed. He dreams about Eros and Eros's brother, Anteros. One the god of love, the other unrequited love. Both useful, both tragic, both wonderful.

He wakes up to a groan.

Pete groggily tries to distinguish the sound, and it sounds, oh,  _pained_. He sits up quickly, ignores the head rush and knuckles the sleep from his  eyes. He gets out of bed, glancing at the clock, which reads 4:28 am, what the fuck, and continues hearing the hurt moans. He follows the sounds to Patrick's door and rushes in without thinking.

Patrick is shirtless and facing the opposite way from Pete, still making these horrible little whiny sounds, like his body aches. Pete steps in, then stops, because what the  _fuck_ , Patrick is curled into himself, on his knees and Pete thinks no amount of sleep could make him imagine the raven black wings from his back. He watches them stretch out, just a little bit, and when they finally stretch at what Pete assumes is their entire length, Patrick stops groaning. Instead, he lets out these little relieved breaths like it feels better to stretch them. 

They flutter, do these little twitch motions like they're trying to get the hang of it, and Patrick breathes in and out more evenly, more confidently. Pete stares in dangerous fascination at their approximate size, not enormous or anything, but length of about three feet and long graceful feathers. They're beautiful, Pete thinks, shiny black, and Pete thinks he catches sight of strands of gold and silver. He watches Patrick stand up from his spot and stretch his spine. His wings flap up and down, loud, dusting the room in this black dust, like moths. 

He covers his mouth, not wanting to breath in and sneeze, alert Patrick of his presence. He watches the black dust fly everywhere, sees Patrick's ribs shift from here as he breathes deeply.

Patrick turns slightly, and his eyes catch Pete. He jumps, eyes widening, and inhales sharply. He flaps his wings furiously and the black dust envelops Pete. He doesn't remember anything after that.

In the morning, Pete wakes up in his bed. He remembers last night and when he peaks in the spare bedroom, the dust is gone and so is Patrick. He shivers. He walks to the kitchen, greeted by Patrick who sits wrapped around his coffee. His eyes look exhausted, like when they were younger and he'd talk about his family tiredly, like they worried him but he wished they didn't. He looks at Pete says, "How'd you sleep?" like usual and Pete tries not to wince.

"I um. You. The wings?" he asks. He wants, no,  _needs_ some answers, for his own sanity, please.

Patrick just looks at him, blinks once, twice. He starts to smile, "Wings?"

Pete tries not to scream but its a close thing. "Yes?" he tries, "your  _wings?"_

Patrick starts laughing, little chuckles, and says, "Dude, what?"

"They were, last night?" he asks, looking at Patrick, who nods. "You were, uh, groaning? I heard and I um, I went to check on you, but you were on your knees and had these like," Pete tries to gesture wings, "these big black wings, dude, and I. I uh, I saw this dust? But you, um. You saw me, remember?"

Patrick's brow is furrowed carefully, he shakes his head,  _no_ , and Pete huffs. Patrick's face flickers with an emotion Pete can't totally read, but its gone as quickly as it showed up. Patrick smirks, it looks foreign on his face, like he's  _trying_ to pull one over Pete and he explains, "One hell of a dream, though."

Pete frowns.

He hums the intro to _Angel Angel Down We Go Together_ , watches Patrick flush an undeniable red. It's not what the song is about, necessarily, so much as the title.

He leaves immediately, and doesn't hang out like they usually do. The pattern is broken for all of two days before he decides he misses Patrick.

He convinces himself it was a dream so he stops watching Patrick's back so closely. It kinda works, except for how he thinks about it late at night when he writes.

 

" _black feathers spring from shoulders/ dreaming of impossibilities unraveled/ confront you, the road far less traveled."_

_\--------------------  
_

Patrick calls Pete, and Pete wakes up to the ring. He flips open his phone and waits, waits for anything. Explanation, denial, apology, all the above?

Patrick breathes, "Meet me tomorrow."

Okay, so none of the above, but still something.

Pete grins, agrees, and hangs up when Patrick says, "Bye."

Pete smiles at the lyrics on the table still waiting, the mess of melodies Patrick left when he stormed out.

Pete thinks about the previous experiences, the glowing, the occasional eyes, the wings he was convinced didn't happen. The horns? That's new, but not insane by their standards.

The next day, they get coffee at some hipster place Patrick picked knowing Pete would love the atmosphere. After they get their drinks and sit down, Pete's ready for what's about to come. Patrick is gonna take a deep breath, look horribly tortured, and tell Pete he's an angel, ha, and Pete's gonna say he already knew, that he figured that out already, and Patrick's gonna be shocked, ask Pete how, and he'll take out his lyrics notebook and explain.

However, Patrick does none of these things.

Patrick grins, real and bright, and says, "So. I'm a demon."

Pete blinks, once, twice.

"Oh," he says. Patrick nods, like he agrees completely, and starts laughing, feather light, like he's  _relieved_ of all things.

Pete opens his mouth to say something, to ask how, but can't do anything. Patrick sees and says, "I know, I haven't been able to tell anyone, but you already know, basically at least on some level, so." he grins at Pete again, and its all teeth.  

Suddenly Pete thinks of all the things together, the horns mostly, and takes Patrick in right now. How did he not see it? Patrick's air, his vibe, the  _black_ wings, his voice, his eyes, the way he glows, the way he absorbs light in the room when he pissed. Suddenly Pete looks at  _Patrick_ right now, sees the _sharpsoft_  features, sees his teeth and his reddish hair, his golden freckles. He looks at the mean curve of his lips, and he takes a mental picture of the boy in front of him.  _Click._

" _Oh,"_ he laughs. Patrick beams at him.

"Yeah, it's like. I can control it, of course, it's just," Patrick explains, "I'm part demon. Remember my grandpa?"

Pete nods, vaguely recalling the guy from stories, wild and untamed, left Patrick's grandmother pregnant and never returned. The family called him charming and beautiful, but evil.

Patrick nods, knowing what's going through Pete's head. "Yeah, so, I got his eyes  _and_ his demon traits."

He doesn't mean to giggle, but Patrick joins in, and it's okay.

Pete tells him to show him, just a little bit, and Patrick darts his eyes around the shop, making sure no one's looking. When the coast is clear, he makes his eyes flash. What Pete once read as sun, look now more like flames behind his sockets.

It's stupid, they've only done this when they're drunk or sleepy or anxious, not out in public, not stupid like this where anyone could see, and not sober where they couldn't later pretend it didn't happen, or blame it on the substance, but Pete leans forward anyway.

His lips catch Patrick's, and he pulls back immediately, ready to apologize and blame it on his excitement, but Patrick's eyes flash  _brighter_ and he ambushes Pete's mouth, quick. It only lasts for a few seconds, but by the time they pull back for air, both of them are red and breathless.

Pete says, "Yeah?" and Patrick nods, smiles with his teeth again.

_\--------------------_

When Pete thinks back on it later, he probably should have known something was off.

How did he never realize Patrick's mouth tastes like smoke when he's stressed? When he's turned on his eyes go a reddish hue, his lips taste like maple in the morning. How did he never see the horns poking through, the wings every few days he needs to air out, all beautiful black feathers and vile tragedy in one. 

He tells Patrick what he initially thought and Patrick calls him stupid, but his eyes are soft.

When Pete wants to fight now, he still has a go at music because that's what riles Patrick up, but now he gets to watch his horns poke through the skin and his eyes gleam, gets to watch Patrick shift into his other self.

They keep the demon thing secret, the guys would freak.

The kisses though, they don't.

Pete has his hand up the back of Patrick's shirt, hand pressing in between his shoulder blades, massaging between where the wings poke through late at night. Patrick is straddling Pete's waist on the lounge couch, occasionally talking in between kisses. When Pete presses hard on a knot in his spine, Patrick goes  _splat_ like jelly.

They hear footsteps and twin voices yell, "guys come _ON,"_ and they giggle into each other's necks.

Joe and Andy talk over them, making fun and taking jabs, and Pete holds Patrick closer. He whispers into the shell of Patrick's ear, just quietly enough for only him. He cradles on hand at the base of his skull, fingers tangling in his hair and his lower back.

Mumbles the right Shakespeare quote this time and smiles, "hell is empty, and all the [demons] are here."

**Author's Note:**

> yo would anyone be interested in me continuing this or is it too cliche? also, feel free to critique. anyhow, hope someone likes it!


End file.
